


Making The Green One Red

by GoodTimesNewRoman



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Incest, M/M, POV Third Person, Soul Sex, a bit of death, a lot of water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodTimesNewRoman/pseuds/GoodTimesNewRoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making The Green One Red

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, one day I thought, 'what if the Underfell world was like this?' and so here we are. It's probably a bit different, but it's probably also still Underfell.
> 
> UPDATE 24/3/16: Cleaned things up a tad. This should be the final version.

 

 

*

She turned to dust eventually, but long before that, she started _melting._ Which explained a lot.

His ambush at the bridge had been perfect— _what the fuck do you want, pipsqueak_ answered with _hey, boss, what’s black and blue blue blue all over—_ and she’d fallen down, down to where Papyrus had been waiting with open arms, ready to make her fall for real. So far, so good.

But she’d _kept going_ for ages, past the point of death or anything reasonable. Sans had made his way down, expecting dust and a grim nod from his brother, only to find himself dodging a stray spear instead. Papyrus was managing okay, obviously—Captain thought she knew what he was capable of since she’d been there for his initiation, what a _joke_ —but that wasn’t the problem.

The _problem_ was how _long_ this was taking, and the fucking light show they were putting on in the meantime. The fight was too wild for him to get close enough to help directly, so he did what he always does and observed. One eye on the fight and the other looking for any Guards who might happen by and jump in to help the Captain, or claim her head for themselves.

And she’d started _melting_ —the mark of the Royal Scientist. The fish manages, in death, to make Sans sweat far more than she ever did in life. He didn’t know about this, and things he doesn’t know about—variables he can’t _account_ for—make him want to throw up.

Here he opts, instead, for word vomit. One foot scuffs at the wet ground as he drawls: “Wow. Well, that. . . that sure was something.”

Red eyes shift to register him.

Papyrus is bent almost in half and is taking laboured breaths, his hands clenched tightly to his knees. There are fresh scratches and dents all over his armour, but nothing too deep—nothing serious. He’s plainly exhausted, though, and if he were anyone else, he’d probably be on the floor.

“Guess you’ll be wanting me to call _you_ ‘boss’ from now on, huh?” Sans continues, with a snort. Good job, Sans.

Except, even as his brother’s panting slows and he rises, again, to his proper height, and even as Papyrus keeps those eyes trained on him, he remains silent. What, is he _angry?_ How the hell could Sans possibly have known—

Papyrus offers a pointed nod to someone behind him, and he whirls around, something catching in his throat.

He sees nothing. And _then_ he sees the Echo Flowers. Small patches he’d noticed but forgotten, _already,_ almost hidden behind those. . .

God, he needs to calm down. He’s being so stupid.

“I doubt the news will make much difference to that fool at home,” Papyrus muses, loud _._ As Sans looks back over, he extends the ring finger of his left hand— _the room behind the waterfall._

“The bar first, then.”

*

The door to Grillby’s place swings open, and there is a tiny pause before everyone turns to look. Papyrus knows, of course, what the pause is for. He imagines that usually, the first thing they would all notice would be the _cold_ any new arrival had just welcomed into the front room; they would all know to turn and face the door with withering glares, sizing up whoever decided to cause a ripple in the atmosphere and allow some of their precious heat to escape.

This time, though, the first thing all of them surely notice is the sound his feet make on the floorboards. The sabatons are standard issue, but Papyrus walks like no one else. He strides in like he owns the place, helm removed and tucked under one arm, and when they turn, there is confusion, anxiousness and uncertainty. The pack mentality fails them as they search amongst their numbers for a bright idea and find none. Papyrus would chuckle at them, in his odd way, but that isn’t the effect he’s going for.

“I understand that several members of Our Majesty’s Royal Guard are gathered here this evening,” he begins. “I must inform you that our Captain is dead.”

His voice carries well throughout the room before tapering off to the sound of anguished howls and high whines. Not for the dead woman, but for what they now know is coming.

“We engaged in trial by combat, and I was victorious; as per regulations, I may, if I wish, assume her position. My first act as your Captain will be establishing a new rule—no member is to be caught whiling away here during work hours. I will grant you all leave for today; come tomorrow, breach of this rule will be punishable by death, which I will offer personally.”

He makes an effort to meet each and every stare.

They could, of course, simply jump him here, in a flurry of overturned tables and cards, flying through the air. In truth, there is next to nothing he could do about it. But so much of this, Papyrus knows, is about bravado—about puffing out your chest. That is why it was essential for him to come here immediately after dealing with her dust, and come _in this manner,_ like some turn-of-the-season dictator.

It is a show of something nothing like strength which will be _read_ that way, all the same. The majority of them are dogs, whether they resemble it or not. They are single-minded opportunists; they chase bright lights and follow whoever seems as if they know what they are doing.

“I will expect each of you to report to me in turn, three days from now. And, should anyone take issue with the change in leadership, I advise them to make their peace with this life before coming along. Just like my door, the previous offer is always open.”

This is not to say that there will be no challengers. Being Captain has benefits, governorship of the Arena not being the least of them. The braver ones will try their luck at claiming the title, later. But they will not charge forward and attack him here, together, because the majority will bow to his confidence and those braver ones will want the glory for themselves alone.

This is simply how it works.

*

Papyrus ducks under the pounding flow of water, arm raised. This is one of their best hideaways, strategically speaking—difficult to find and naturally soundproof—but he doesn’t hate it any less for that. No matter what he does, some of the spray will always reach his eye sockets, and rivulets will travel down through the gaps and take up space inside his skull until he finds some way to get warmer. It feels about as unpleasant as it sounds and his instinct is to simply close his eyes, but he never does that, of course; much worse than the sting of the water is the feeling—when you can’t see a thing and can hear only the gushing sounds—that someone is there and they are watching you.

Someone _is_ there this time, as it happens, but it’s someone he expects. Sans is already naked, his sodden clothes stripped off and piled up in a corner; after a moment or two, Papyrus follows his lead, placing the helm to the side before removing the gauntlets, and then moving on to the gorget.

“How’d it go?” Sans asks.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he replies, dry as ever.

 _Dry._ The thought makes Sans snicker. Papyrus raises a brow at him for a moment, then shakes his head without even asking. He fishes his scarf out of the breastplate from where Sans had bundled it behind the shoulder pad this morning, and it hits the ground with a wet slap. Then he turns around, so Sans can take care of the rest.

“Did they torch the house?” he asks, idly, while he’s fiddling with the straps.

“Not yet, but I doubt it will be standing by tomorrow. Too easy not to try.”

“Shame. I think I left a sock there.”

These assorted hunks of metal they call a _full plate_  are why Sans never tried out for anything beyond sentry duty, even though they would’ve been granted the house sooner had he made the Guard. It’s designed for folks substantially less skinny than skeletons, which means that, aside from being far too heavy, it’s impossible to make it sit right, no matter how you adjust it. Papyrus can manage it, being strong and having had plenty of practice at this point, but Sans? Highly unrealistic.

The breastplate finally loosens and comes away in his brother’s hands; Papyrus passes it to him. “All of this is probably gonna rust after today,” Sans points out, tapping at it for emphasis.

“Tomorrow they’ll sign over the ex-Captain’s residence. I’m sure we’ll have the means to deal with it there.”

“You sure about heading to her place? It probably smells like fish.”

“It has a training ground and walls on three sides. It might as well be Heaven.”

Sans barks a surprised laugh at that, and finally— _finally_ —Papyrus cracks a crooked smile.

*

Papyrus sits on the marshy ground and leans against the far wall before beckoning with a hand, and Sans comes, slowly kneeling down. He crawls forward to straddle him, then digs his hands into the ground to shimmy as close as possible. When they’re pressed chest-to-chest, he nestles in at his favoured spot—on his brother’s shoulder, beside his neck. Pressed on top of him like this, he remains marginally less muddy.

“What a gentleman,” Sans murmurs, close to the bone; it comes out sounding less sardonic than he intended. His hands begin to stroke languidly at the arms encircling his pelvis. A bit of comforting heat has already formed in their chests— _determination,_ that’s their colour, but together, like this, it’s always more like _infrared._

Papyrus takes it in stride, of course. “All the better to keep an eye on the entrance,” he says.

And Sans scoffs: “Go to sleep, you ass. My turn first.”

When Papyrus seems to go along with him, no protest—his breathing gradually waning into something slower, deeper, moving Sans along with it—he somewhat regrets saying it. But he _will_ turn around and watch, in a minute, obviously.

In a minute, like usual. A minute exactly, to keep things  _neat_ and simple. Five, ten, twentyseconds. . .

He's at thirty-threewhen a finger _scrapes_ along the crest of his hipbone, and he jerks. “Papyrus,” he grunts, more a question than a warning, but his brother mumbles what sounds like, “Accident. My mistake,” as he gives the same spot another, lighter stroke. And before Sans can actually ask him, Papyrus wonders aloud:

“What was it you said? Earlier today.”

He sighs. “Come on, don’t. I never mess up like that. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, for cr—“

“You said you’d have to call me something, from now on. I wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

Sans stiffens.

Then Sans pulls back, so he can see his face.

Papyrus' eyes are wide open, and they are now giving him a look that speaks of nothing so much as utter mischief. “Well?” he prods, figuratively and literally, poking at his hip.

And Sans snorts. Really loudly. Good job, Papyrus, holy fuck.

His _brother’s_  tone is laced through with amusement, and Sans gets _amused_ at the worst of times. He pretends to think it over, then gives Papyrus his best shit-eating grin as he shrugs his shoulders. “Huh,” he muses. “Can’t seem to remember it.”

“Really.”

“Yea—ah! . . . Yup.” And he’s only barely caught off guard by the way one finger snakes around and starts _pressing,_ on and off in a simple but effective pattern, at the base of his spine.

“Is that so.”

“D-definitely.” Sans should be proud of himself, honestly.

Papyrus hums. The next time the pressure stops, it doesn’t return.

“Pity. I had such plans for that word.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly say, now.”

Sans snorts again—no, snickers—it’s probably a _mix_ of them, whatever, he’s got a lot in him today and he doesn’t even know where it’s going—so he ducks back to that broad shoulder until it subsides. Papyrus just continues to hold him and stare at the waterfall. And it should stay like that, really, at least until tomorrow. If they’re being smart. God, it would be so stupid to do anything here. He’s sure no one else has ever found this spot, but with their luck. . .

Well, anyone who’d walk in would probably be too traumatised to move, so then they could _—god, no, quit it, you only just stopped—_

“I would invite you to share with the class,” Papyrus deadpans, “but whatever’s that funny might kill me.”

Sans slaps his other shoulder. He’s gonna make him cry. Sans loves him. God, he’s gonna make him cry.

*

In resumed quiet, Sans makes up his mind. “I, uh, I think I remembered,” he chuckles, and leans in.

 _“Boss,”_ he says. It’s a whisper, right up at the teeth, but Sans looks him straight in the eyes.

Papyrus grips his hips for dear life.

*

There’s usually a bit of a battle over who gets to set the rhythm. Papyrus takes it so _slow,_ all practiced, smooth motions along his ribcage, down his spine. Wavy ones, at the hips. Sans, on the other hand, just likes to get close, to get to the _heart_ of the matter. Instant gratification. Call him lazy, if you want.

Tonight, though, they settle on some kind of middle ground. He’s riding and Papyrus is the waves, rutting them both; he’s just going along with it, allowing himself to be swept away.  Each of them drips red from the chest, and Sans throws his head back and begs for breath to laugh with because it doesn’t _matter_ —they’re filthy already, and he _wants_ to get dirty, wants to get downright _stained_ from this.

Papyrus knocks the wind right out of his sails and he can’t laugh, he _can’t,_ but he keeps saying it when he can, that word, because it makes Papyrus buck even harder. Because this isn’t about _ownership,_ this is about give-and-take—only, that isn’t right either. Because at some point it stopped sounding comical and started sending flushes through him, and now he is mounting and surging and roaring to match the waterfall.

Papyrus sinks further down, sliding his waist out from the wall and granting Sans more leverage. He has the right idea, but it’s not enough—Sans turns him, using every bit of his weight to shove Papyrus down by the chest so that his skull meets the earth. And Papyrus allows it, abandoning all pretense of caring for anything but this. For a while Sans rocks like that, high above him so that he can watch as the red cascades and coats both of their ribs, drips to the ground and explodes like strange rain—but, before too long, Sans _bends_ and they’re almost connected.

The last links in the chain are the way Papyrus arcs, curling his toes, and the way Sans tightens his knees against his sides. The way Sans rips his hands away from his pelvis and pins them to the ground, spreading Papyrus’ clenched fingers apart and weaving his own through the gaps, gripping hard enough to hurt. All of this brings them closer, closer, right up to each other’s faces. Each other’s chests.

The red moves to coalesce, like it’s natural. The droplets _could_ be rain, could be hot wax, could even be sparks; but, without question, what they _form_ is an inverted sea. It boils instead of freezing them, it is blindingly bright instead of dark, and to drown in it—to drown in it is the finest, most pleasant sensation. No matter how many times it carries them away in a torrent, Papyrus comes no closer to navigating anything, of course; what chance does he have, in the face of a force like that?

The final opposite: this sea lies on the ceiling. They are upside-down, and when they are beached they are shuddering and dizzy. Papyrus is gasping; his head throbs, swimming, and now that all the strung-up nerves that make up Sans have been tugged at and uncoiled, he goes suddenly limp, the vice grip of his fingers finally retracting. He cannot hold his head up, and he collapses on top of Papyrus, unconscious before either can get another word in.

 _Well,_ Papyrus thinks, dimly: _that settles it._

He is short of breath, and feels far too fragile and _present_ at first, so he grants himself a small reprieve before he shifts, lowering the smaller body to the ground. Sans doesn’t stir; he is a light sleeper, usually, but Sans is never _usual_ after this. Neither is he, really, but they can’t both give themselves over to such change. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. But Papyrus will always hope—giving up simply isn’t in his nature. And today was a victory, no matter how you spin it.

He draws his knees up and trains his eyes on the entrance. His hands are sore—scraped against and pressed on too tightly. It’s a good ache, though, burning in a way unlike any of his other injuries. It will keep him awake.

“My turn first,” he murmurs, to no one in particular.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [My blog.](http://good-times-new-roman.tumblr.com/)


End file.
